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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143515">Seeking Shelter, Seeking Solace</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireness/pseuds/shireness'>shireness</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Once Upon a Time (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Mail Order Brides, Marriage of Convenience, but not creepy, everyone is firmly on board with the marriage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:19:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,611</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143515</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireness/pseuds/shireness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>1895. Emma Swan answers an ad in the paper from a man looking for a wife in order to flee Boston - only to arrive in rural Storybrooke, Minnesota and discover that her intended husband is dead. Left with no other options, Emma takes a position at the local tavern alongside the sullen, dark-haired barkeep with demons of his own. But what will she do when the forces she’s worked so hard to escape reappear in the new life she’s building, forcing her to turn to this unlikely savior for aid?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Seeking Shelter, Seeking Solace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Every year, my mother insists that we watch the Hallmark adaptation of "Sarah, Plain and Tall" because she loves it and wouldn't it be such a nice tradition even though she's basically the only one who loves it. So, last time, I came up with this idea instead of fully watching. As one does. </p>
<p>Rated M for suggestive stuff. Super thanks to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan.</p>
<p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Emma can’t help but fidget in her seat as her train tears across the Midwestern landscape. Though this was her choice, she still can’t help but be nervous; after all, this is a very different world from Boston, the only home she’s ever known. She’s used to bustling streets and the lap of the waves against the docks at the harbor, not these miles after miles of plains and crop fields. It’s almost enough to make her second guess this whole thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not a mistake though, she knows. She’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to get out of Boston, as quickly as possible, and this had been the best of a variety of bad options. Emma has never been particularly romantic, even as a little girl, but in the few imaginings she’d allowed herself of her future, answering a newspaper ad for a wife had never factored in. Then again, her fantasies had never anticipated the particular situation she’s trying to escape: a man who wouldn’t hear no, who was willing to pursue her relentlessly, from city to city, always a threat on her tail. The security of marriage, and of distance, had only made sense. And then again, she’s never been sentimental ; true love isn’t something she anticipated in a union, or even particularly believed in, for that matter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man she’s travelling to meet seems kind, she consoles herself with knowing. Emma hadn’t been particularly picky in selecting a man from the handful of querants in the paper, but Graham Humbert seems to be a good one. He’s the sheriff of a small town in Minnesota, who found himself lonely and wanting companionship.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I can darn my own socks and cook my own dinner, though neither with any exemplary skill</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he had written. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not looking for someone to look after me in that way, regardless of what my friends’ wives think; I’d hire a lady to do the cleaning if that was the issue. I’m searching for someone to speak with at the end of a long day, someone to listen and to laugh with. I don’t believe myself to be a sweeping romantic, but I will be happy to give and receive a kind of gentle affection. Maybe we can come to love each other in time; I would be happy with that too, though I am not counting on it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d liked that about him, that amiable practicality so evident even in his letters. It’s what had made her agree to travel to Minnesota with the intent to marry him, really - the feeling that they viewed a union in the same way. There will be a trial period, of course, a month during which to decide whether the two of them will suit each other before anything is formalized - but Emma is determined to make it work. What other choice does she have?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The train will be pulling into Storybrooke soon - a tiny dot on the map, where Emma doubts anyone else will be alighting. All of her belongings have been tightly packed into two measly carpetbags in order to, hopefully, start a new life. Maybe it’s foolish, but Emma had splurged on a new, sleek jacket before she’d left the city, a cheery blue to pair with her navy skirt and white blouse in an attempt to impress. Mostly, she wants to look </span>
  <em>
    <span>neat</span>
  </em>
  <span> more than anything else: a capable woman, one who won’t be afraid to adapt to a new life with a minimum of fuss, one who won’t make Sheriff Humbert’s life more difficult. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pretty</span>
  </em>
  <span> is of secondary concern.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sees the town coming long before the train pulls into the tiny station, roofs and chimneys rising above the flat landscape and copious corn fields. Somewhere in this state, she knows, are hundreds and thousands of lakes; however, they’re nowhere to be seen here. Storybrooke itself is a bare cluster of buildings seeming to group around a single main street, with homesteads and farm plots doubtlessly stretching out to the surrounding area. It’s a whole different world from what she’s used to, but that’s the entire point, really; no one will think to look for her here, in the rural midwest as the wife of a sheriff. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the train finally pulls into what passes for a station, a single cramped building with barely enough room for a ticket office and a luggage closet, a man is waiting on the platform, sheltered from the late-spring sun by an awning off the station roof. The star-shaped badge on his coat and the way he shifts nervously from foot to foot make Emma think this must be the anticipated Sheriff Humbert. His hair is rather more golden than the sandy blonde-brown color Mr. Humbert had tried to describe in his letters, but Emma supposes that’s to be expected. She likely didn’t give a perfect description of her appearance either. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quickly, she gathers her bags and alights to the station platform with the assistance of a young porter. The man waiting quickly doffs his hat, playing with the brim in another nervous gesture. “Miss Swan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carefully, Emma arranges her face into something she hopes passes as an amiable smile. “Yes, that’s me. And you’ll be Sheriff Humbert, I presume?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I - well, no,” the man who isn’t Graham Humbert stutters out. “I’m David Nolan, actually. One of the deputies here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unexpected - but there are countless excellent reasons that Deputy Nolan might be sent instead. Trouble can happen even in a small town, dozens of minor disputes that can somehow only be settled by the sheriff himself. “In that case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nolan. I must admit, I was expecting Mr. Humbert. Pardon my mistake.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About that —” Deputy Nolan cuts himself off, looking curiously uncomfortable. It sets Emma a bit on edge, but there’s no way to dance around it - not when she doesn’t have all the information.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Deputy Nolan swallows heavily, visibly, his fingers tightening around the brim of his hat again before he drags his eyes to meet hers. “I’m sorry to tell you, Miss Swan, but Graham - Sheriff Humbert - died two days ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of all the things she thought he might say, all the ways she imagined this might go, that certainly wasn’t one of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>———</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It wasn’t anything violent, or related to his job,” Deputy - well, now </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sheriff</span>
  </em>
  <span> Nolan tells Emma once he’s led her to a seat in Storybrooke’s one and only bar, the Sherwood Tavern. Emma finds herself grateful for the glass of dark liquor the man behind the bar slides to her without asking; after this shock, she could certainly use it. “He just collapsed. Graham had been bothered by periodic chest pains for… as long as I can remember, really. We figure it just finally caught up to him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma nods at the words, not sure what to say. It’s all jarring, really, sad for the loss of who she believes had been a good man, but it’s hard to muster much emotion. She had only known him through letters, carefully crafted missives in which they had doubtlessly both tried to show the best sides of themselves; she doesn’t have the same attachment to the man as Nolan, and everyone else in town, understandably did. Her grief is for plans and possibilities never realized, for the idea of a man instead of the genuine article. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We know you came out here specifically with the intent of marrying Graham. There’s not much other reason to come to Storybrooke,” Sheriff Nolan comments with a laugh. “Graham’s savings and property are set to go to the town, but we’d be happy to buy you a ticket back to Boston. It’s the least we can do, when you turn out to have come all this way for nothing but disappointment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a kind offer, really. There’s no reason for Emma to stay, after all, and Storybrooke doesn’t have much to offer. But even if Emma hadn’t needed to escape Boston… there’s nothing there to pull her back. No family, and only a single friend. She isn’t even attached to the city, though it’s all she’s ever known. Returning to Boston would be returning to a sparse boarding house room and a life spent looking over her shoulder. Here - well, there’s no promises, but Emma would be willing to bet it’s not any worse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you don’t mind,” she responds carefully, “I’d prefer to stay. There’s nothing for me back in Boston either, believe it or not. This may not be permanent, but… for the time being, I’d prefer to stay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then we’ll be happy to welcome you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>———</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And they are. Sheriff Nolan takes her down the street to the boarding house run by a Mrs. Lucas and her granddaughter over their family’s pharmacy, where both women welcome her with open arms. Ruby Lucas, the granddaughter, is tall and willowy, every inch of her full of personality, and her grandmother is a gruff old lady poorly hiding an enormous affection for her loud-spoken granddaughter. Emma can practically see the moment Mrs. Lucas - “That’s Granny to you, girl, only strangers and enemies call me Mrs. Lucas” - absorbs her into their little fold. The room they provide is small, but clean and bright; Emma is more than agreeable to the small fee she’ll owe to rent the room each month, especially knowing that breakfast and dinner are included in the rent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Storybrooke is exactly the quiet little town it appeared to be from the train. Besides the bar and the pharmacy and the sheriff’s station, there’s a general store and a post office, a bank and a rudimentary library. There are a handful of other buildings too - Emma’s been told that one houses the doctor’s office - but she hasn’t had cause or need to learn them. Perhaps in time, she’ll learn all the ins and outs of who belongs where in this little place. It seems inevitable; after all, that’s small town life, even when so many of the so-called residents live further out on isolated farmsteads. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As much as Granny seems to immediately see Emma as her ward, Ruby Lucas seems to view it as her duty to introduce Emma to Storybrooke’s small social scene, and attacks the task with gusto. Even if it’s just a small circle - Mary Margaret Nolan, Sheriff Nolan’s wife; Belle Gold, the town librarian; and Elsa Jones, whose husband operates the general store - Emma finds herself somewhat overwhelmed by the attention. She’s never had this before, not really; there hadn’t been much of a chance to make friends, growing up in an orphanage. There’d only really been August, who she’s come to view more as a brother than anything else. It will take some getting used to, having this number of people eager for her company and opinion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(There’s an argument to be made, Emma supposes, that Neal had been a friend, too - but he’d been a lover, more than that, and then he’d been gone. It’s hard to justify counting him, even in her pathetically brief list.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s so nice to have a new face about town,” Mrs. Nolan - Mary Margaret gushes as she leads Emma arm-in-arm down the street to the library. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the familiar faces of course - oh no, of course not! But it is so nice to hear new perspectives and meet new personalities, you know? Oh, I’m just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>thrilled </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re here!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is exhausting and touching, all at once - and just another thing Emma will learn to expect in this little town, she’s sure. She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>determined</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>———</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Emma decides to stay, Sheriff Nolan offers to put some of Sheriff Humbert’s assets towards paying her room and board, but Emma refuses. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the offer; it’s a nice change to have someone else trying to look out for her, even if she gets the sense that David does this for everyone. However, she never even met Graham. They’d exchanged letters, had come to a rudimentary understanding, and that was all. She has no right to lay claim to any of his money on such a flimsy connection, no matter how obligated Sheriff Nolan feels to look out for her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma resolves to get a job instead, to pay her own way, and only accept the help if she’s forced to. It’s not a particularly big deal; Emma has been working in one way or another since she was a teenager. She’s worked in factories, and shops, and more recently as a secretary in a bank and then a law office. Her favorite had been the stint as a companion to a wealthy invalid. Ms. Ingrid had had a sharp tongue and had loved to turn her quiet, yet cutting comments on passersby outside her townhome’s windows, often leaving Emma in fits of laughter and the older woman with a satisfied look on her face. She’d had a fondness for Emma, too; privately, one of Ms. Ingrid’s nieces had once told Emma she had lasted longer than any of the previous companions, a small compliment she couldn’t help but treasure. She’d ultimately left, shortly before the old lady died; one of Ms. Ingrid’s sister’s husbands had been making ever-more-insistent passes Emma had been struggling to dodge, and she hadn’t been needed much as Ingrid had slowly slipped away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(She thinks about Ms. Ingrid often, still, and the year she’d spent in that house; sometimes, Emma thinks it was one of the only times she’s ever been purely happy.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her opportunities for employment are limited. The general store doesn’t need additional help, and the library is barely big enough to justify one employee, let alone two. She’d played with the idea of helping out at the Sheriff’s station; with the way Sheriff Nolan seems desperate to be of assistance, for Graham’s memory if not her own sake, she’s certain he wouldn’t mind. But the fact of the matter is that this is a tiny town, with a tiny sheriff’s office to match. What would there be to do? It’s not like Boston, where there’s enough crime to produce enough paperwork to keep her busy. Sheriff Nolan himself had said that they didn’t deal with much more than petty disagreements and the occasional barfight. Even the local pickpocket had reformed and was working at the post office, running the telegraph machine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, she turns to the Sherwood Tavern - the one place in town she’s certain gets enough business to need help. Making inquiries, she discovers that it’s owned and operated by a pair of friends: Robin Locksley, who spends most of his time just outside of town at the horse stables he runs with his wife, and Killian Jones, the sullen, dark haired man who’d been behind the bar that first afternoon when Emma had arrived. They’re an interesting pair; Mr. Locksley is all smiles and sunshine, even with that slightly roguish grin, and happy to talk about anything, while Mr. Jones barely talks at all and smiles even less. Still, it’s obvious that the two men are friends, watching the way they work around each other in the space behind the bar. Maybe that speaks well of Mr. Jones, or poorly of Mr. Locksley; Emma thinks it’s likely the former, just based on Sheriff Nolan’s own reaction to the two men. Somehow, she doesn’t think he’d allow her to take a position at an establishment run by men he didn’t trust. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Locksley is immediately amenable to giving Emma a position as barmaid. It’s Mr. Jones who has more questions, and evidently more hesitance. Emma isn’t sure what to make of him; he’s an attractive man, objectively, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, but his silence and moroseness are jarring, even if he seems to be a beloved member of this little town. There’s a story there, somewhere, maybe related to the scars that dominate the skin of his left hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This isn’t a glamorous job, you know. It’s messy, sometimes even rowdy,” he says, studying Emma carefully where she stands in her neat skirt and shirtwaist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It only makes her draw up taller. “I know. I wasn’t expecting it to be. You run a bar, not a tea room.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That gets her a faintly approving nod, at least. “Pay won’t be anything to write home about either.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Will it be enough to cover my room over at Granny’s?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aye, it ought to be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then that’s good enough for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Jones finally gives his nod of approval, Locksley beams across at her. “Well, Ms. Swan, it looks like you have a job, and we have a barmaid. Welcome aboard.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>———</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is not remotely the life that Emma expected to find herself living, but it’s nice in its own way. There’s a pleasant routine to it all, of Granny fussing over her at mealtimes and Ruby dragging her out to socialize and keeping busy at the bar in the afternoons and evenings. It’s almost… cozy, she supposes the word is. The citizens of Storybrooke seem determined to absorb her into the fold and make her feel at home, and Emma even finds herself becoming fond of the regulars at the bar. There’s something constant and reassuring about Leroy’s complaints and the way Mr. Marco comes in for exactly one beer each night, no more than 30 minutes after sundown. Will Scarlet might be her favorite; he’s a mouthy bastard, a former thief who now inexplicably runs the post office and operates the telegraph line, but his particular brand of attitude amuses Emma and keeps her on her toes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(It takes her approximately a week and one passing observation in the street for Emma to realize that he’s head over heels for Belle Gold, wife of the man who owns half the town, and most likely reformed his life for </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A brave man, too, then - or maybe just a fool. From what Emma understands, it’s a bad idea to get on the wrong side of Mr. Gold; he’s a manipulative man who always needs to be in control of everything and does not tolerate people standing up to him or encroaching upon his perceived territory. Emma imagines that Gold’s wife is very much included in that inventory.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s usually just her and Jones and the other barkeep, Mr. Smee, working at the bar every day. Emma thinks Mr. Locksley - “Robin, please, I’m not the formal type” - might have been involved just as a favor to the other man; he’ll put in appearances every so often, especially when his business partner requests it, but he mostly seems happy to stay out at the horse farm he operates with his wife. There’s a story there, Emma’s sure - but she’s certain that she doesn’t yet have the right to ask. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t know what to make of Jones, really. He’s a meticulous man, and she thinks even a good one, based on the way he takes care of his establishment and is willing to patiently listen to various gripes from patrons at the bar as they work their problems out themselves. The sullen, quiet demeanor doesn’t seem like his natural state; sometimes, she catches his eyebrows twitching or the sides of his mouth trying to quirk up when one of the regulars says something suggestive, like it once would have been instinct to reach for innuendo or even jokes in the same way. She almost wonders if this is something of an emotional shield, an affectation he’s worn for so long that it’s become comfortable. Regardless, there must have been something in his past that led him here - something that’s emphasized by the careful way that Robin and Sheriff Nolan - David, now - treat him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jones’ brother, Liam - who operates the general store and is Elsa’s husband - seems to be the only one that doesn’t indulge Killian’s reserved state. It intrigues Emma, and really reinforces her feeling that the younger man must not have always been like this. It’s somewhere between a matter of the elder Jones not having a tolerance of it, and trying to purposefully provoke the younger. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is everything alright?” she dares to ask one afternoon after Liam Jones storms away from a discussion carried on in angry, hissed tones. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine. Liam’s just trying to control everything again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s probably a wonder she managed to get that much out of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hard, though, to be expected to spend so much time with a person and barely trading ten words in any given day. It makes the day longer, and the work harder. On a particularly slow day, when there’s barely a soul in the place and no longer even any cleaning left to do, Emma finds herself scrambling to break the silence, just to cut the boredom. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is a mistake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a tattoo on his right forearm, usually covered by his shirt sleeve and just barely allowing hints of dark, swirling ink to peek through. Emma usually only sees the edges in flashes, when the sleeve of his shirt shifts just right as he reaches for something, but his sleeves are rolled nearly to his elbows tonight, revealing the whole work. It’s a detailed piece, one he must have gotten in Chicago or Minneapolis or some other city big enough to have an artist of talent. There’s certainly not a tattoo shop in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Storybrooke</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of all places. The swirls of black she’s caught glimpses of frame a heart with a jagged dagger through it, with a single word on a tattered scroll at the forefront.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who’s Milah?” she asks, instead of wiping down the tables for the twentieth time this evening. “On the tattoo.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s like his whole body seizes - spine straightening, eyes shutting down, every inch of him infused with tension. It’s obvious she’s struck a nerve, one that affects his entire being.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Someone from long ago,” he finally mutters, before stalking off to scrub imaginary grime off already-spotless tables.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It would be stupid to wonder what she did; that’s obvious to anyone with eyes. What she’s more confused about is </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>that particular question set him off. It’s obvious there’s a story there, one she doesn’t know but that must be central to the man he is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin is there that day, taking care of something in the small office at the back; without Emma even asking, he slides up next to Emma with an explanation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Milah was his fiancée,” he explains quietly. “She died, several years back, in a freak accident. He was driving her to town and the horse startled, flipping the whole wagon. It’s how he injured his hand, too.” Another question answered, then; Emma can see the way the scarred limb still pains him, seizing and spasming in ways that make him scowl deeper with irritation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He wasn’t always like this,” Robin continues. “He used to be the most charming man you’d ever meet, always with a smile and some saucy comment. You’d have barely recognized him back then. It’s funny, and awful, what grief does to a man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that explains a lot too - the way she sometimes sees his eyes flash or mouth pull like some half-forgotten instinct. That’s the look of a man who was broken, and who forced his pieces back together with the weakest glue, where things no longer fit together in the same way as they did before, even if all the fragments are there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is just another piece of the puzzle that is her silent coworker, but maybe the bit that makes it all make sense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Emma has never been much for guilt - but she can’t help but feel some small guilt for this.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>———</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thing about living in a small town, for better or worse, is that there are </span>
  <em>
    <span>expectations</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Despite its small size, there seem to be a million and five social functions in Storybrooke - church picnics and sewing circles and, tonight, a social and dance in Mr. Clark’s new barn. Emma could decline to attend, technically; it’s not as if she’s contractually obligated to make a showing. But Storybrooke is a tiny town, and Emma is the new face, and she’ll be thought of as unfriendly, even odd, if she doesn’t at least put in an appearance. Besides, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>is going - and Ruby would never let her hear the end of it if she didn’t at least make an appearance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So she goes. She stands with Mary Margaret and David and lets Ruby pull her along and compliments Granny on her contributions to the potluck spread. She even takes a turn around the dance floor when asked, even dares to enjoy herself a little bit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t get to be too much, however. The residents of Storybrooke are all so welcoming and well-meaning, but Emma’s spent so much of her life alone, and suddenly being inundated with all this good cheer is a particular variety of overwhelming. It’s not their fault - it’s entirely hers - but Emma can’t resist slipping out the barn doors to creep around the side, seeking a quiet and solitary moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not to be found, however; as Emma rounds the corner, it is easy to see Jones in the light of the nearly-full moon, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back and clearly avoiding the festivities in the same way. There’s half a thought of just retreating, creeping around the other side instead, but he turns his head to meet her eyes before she has the chance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry,” she tries to apologize. “I’ll just leave you be —”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A brief smile without much feeling twitches across Jones’ face. “Hiding from the party?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, but I can find somewhere else —”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s no need. Stay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma stays. What other choice does she have? She isn’t exactly eager to spend this time with Jones, but it would be blatantly rude to insist on leaving after he had made such a generous offer. Carefully, she props herself against the wooden wall, ignoring the way that stray splinters try to poke through her dress. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She assumes they’ll just stand there in silence - they aren’t exactly friends, for all the time they spend together, and after the other day she’s sure he isn’t much fond of her - but Jones surprises her by breaking that silence after only a few minutes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I owe you an apology, Miss Swan,” he says softly, but clearly. “I’ve been less than welcoming these past weeks. I am sorry for that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the last thing she expected him to say, and Emma has no idea how to respond. “Thank you,” she finally settles on. “I appreciate it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She thinks that’ll be it; that he’ll have said his piece, and they’ll go back to a more-or-less easy civility. It isn’t. “I suppose Robin, or one of the others, told you about… about Milah?” Emma nods. It’s clear this is difficult for him to speak about; she wonders a little why he’s bothering to tell her, of all people. “After she was - after she </span>
  <em>
    <span>passed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I rather fell to pieces. She was gone, and the accident all but mangled my hand so it seemed like I couldn’t do much of anything with my life, and it was easier to fall into a bottle than to face my grief. Robin helped a lot, giving me something to do at the bar and eventually letting me buy into the place, but some days I still feel like all those pieces are still barely held together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I understand,” Emma tells him softly, almost too softly to hear. And she does; she’d felt something of that despair when Neal had left, like she’d never find anyone or anything to compare again and there were a whole host of feelings and experiences she’d never reclaim, never experience without him. She can only imagine how much deeper that pain must run for him, when his fiancée had died and not just run away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he says, but she can tell he doesn’t fully believe her. That’s alright; she hasn’t given him any reason to. “Anyhow. It’s been five years now, and I’m… acceptant, I suppose. I don’t anticipate being that same man I was ever again, or being able to truly move on and find someone else, but I’m not actively trying to drown all my feelings anymore, which most agree is a significant improvement.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Most?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Most,” he repeats. “I believe you’re acquainted with Mary Margaret Nolan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Exactly. Ah. Mrs. Nolan is a very kind woman, of course. She truly does mean well, and she and David are wonderful for each other. But she is… unbearably optimistic, if I’m being blunt. Mary Margaret is of the opinion that now that I have reached an acceptance of everything that happened with Milah - everything that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>lost</span>
  </em>
  <span> with Milah - that it’s time I move on, and find a new ‘happy ending.’ So when you came to town - a new face, lonely, needing help…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma sees exactly where this is going. “You assumed she would immediately start trying to play matchmaker.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Precisely. Well, not quite assumed; I’ve known Mary Margaret long enough that it was more like </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you decided to head it off before it even started.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aye. Again, I do apologize for how it means I treated you. You didn’t deserve that kind of hostility. But I didn’t want her getting any ideas about fixing us up together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then I forgive you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Killian stares blankly at her for a moment, clearly not quite processing her words. “Just like that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You forget - I’ve met Mary Margaret too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His lips twitch in that almost-smile again, and Emma could swear she hears him huff out the hint of a laugh. “She is nothing if not persistent. A second chance, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Emma finds herself surprisingly happy to agree.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>———</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re still not friends, exactly. Jones isn’t exuberant, and that doesn’t change just because they had a chance to reset things behind the barn. But they’re… friendly. Amiable. Companionable. A whole host of other almost-type words. She no longer feels like he resents her very presence in his place of business, and even makes sure to make her life better in little ways, like helping her wipe down glasses and handle more belligerent patrons. She appreciates it, truly; it makes her life easier, knowing he’ll back her up, and that’s more than enough. Despite the small town-big family feel of Storybrooke, she’s still a city girl at heart who’s fine not to make best friends with everyone. She’s more than satisfied to be his employee, and nothing more; in fact, it’s a welcome change after some of the jobs she’s had.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(That’s what landed her here in the first place, after all: a man who doesn’t much care about her many, many denials.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even if they’re not friends, she spends enough time around the man to recognize some of his reactions, the slight variations of “sullen” that still play across his face if you’re watching closely. And as soon as Belle Gold walks in with an older man Emma can only assume is her husband, Emma sees the way that Jones’ entire body tenses up. The tension in the air is palpable between the two; even Belle shifts uncomfortably as they approach the bar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Could I have a small glass of beer, please?” she asks Emma softly. It’s a relief to reach for the glass instead of just waiting for whatever this is to explode. “It’s so terribly warm out there today, I found myself needing a little something to cool down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beside her, her husband hasn’t broken eye contact with Jones. Emma doubts he’s fully aware of what she and Belle are doing right next to him. “You’re still here then, Jones?” he asks in an icy, sinister voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aye.” Jones’ face is just as stony when he responds. Emma can practically see the way he vibrates with suppressed rage.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose you don’t have anywhere else to go, do you, or anyone else to chase after. No one really wants to take on a man with only one functional hand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s go, Robert,” Belle urges. Her beer is barely touched, but her refreshment seems forgotten as the encounter turns increasingly hostile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carefully, Jones sets the glass he had been holding back on the bar as the rest of the room holds its breath. Emma can see the way he flexes his scarred left hand, though she doesn’t think anyone else is playing close enough attention. “That’s true,” he says in that deadly quiet voice, “but you’re stuck here too, Gold. And we both know you’re the one who trapped me in this town.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Strong words from a weak man —” Mr. Gold starts to say, but his target has already stalked away towards the door Emma knows hides a staircase. Jones keeps an apartment above the premises; doubtless he’s gone there to lick his wounds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Belle quickly ushers her husband out after that, leaving the barely touched glass on the counter. Emma takes a long drag, not one to waste the beverage; she can’t help but hold some bitterness towards Belle for this altercation, even though she knows the woman is otherwise lovely and kind and even something like a friend to Jones. She must have known this might happen, bringing her husband in here. The man has a reputation, one that makes it hard to believe that his wife is so kind - and married to him. Besides, the whole exchange reeked of an unknown history between the two men, of so many words and actions leading to today’s explosion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Behind the bar, Mr. Smee - a timid man by nature, a predilection not remotely helped by these dramatics - looks anxiously between the room half-full of patrons and the door through which Jones had disappeared. It only takes a moment to realize what needs to be done - and that Emma will have to be the one to do it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nod toward the bar floor for Smee, Emma quickly climbs the stairs, a glass of rum in hand. She’s noticed Jones taking a shot of the stuff when some customer is drunk enough to buy a round for everyone. If there’s ever been a time when a drink of something biting would help - well, this is probably it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn’t hard to find Jones. He hasn’t even made it into his apartment proper, instead sitting propped against the wall in the hallway with his head hung between his upright knees. He looks up at the sound of her boot heels clicking on the stairs, happy to accept the proffered spirits, only to hunch back over the glass once it’s in his hands. Emma waits patiently for the explanation she knows is coming; she’s long since grown used to silence sitting between the two of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He killed her,” Jones finally says, draining the remains of his rum in one swallow. “Milah. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My</span>
  </em>
  <span> Milah. He wanted her, but she wanted nothing to do with him, and she chose </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He smiles softly in remembrance, a foreign look on his face from what Emma has come to know. “I could never prove it, of course. But he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hated</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she chose me, hated me for supposedly stealing what was his by pursuing the woman who pursued me first. And that wagon… it never should have tipped. It was sturdy, not even a year old, and the road was even. But there was a shot, fired someplace close that I could never pinpoint, and the horse startled, and the axle was apparently so weak or damaged that it broke, and by the time it was all over…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was gone,” Emma supplies softly. Somehow, in the middle of all this, she’s found herself on the floor next to him. It seems like what he needs right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was quick, at least. She broke her neck and died instantly. I just… I could never prove it, but I always knew it was Gold. The sabotage of the wagon and the shot to set everything in motion.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It makes horrifying sense; maybe Jones is wrong, but from everything Emma has heard and seen of Mr. Gold, she wouldn’t put it past him. “And now you’re forced to see him all the time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We had plans, you know,” he tells her, staring into his glass like he can make it refill by will alone. “We were going to pack up, move to Duluth or Chicago - somewhere along the Great Lakes, where I could get a job on one of the ships. But she was - she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and my hand was barely functional, and when Robin offered to let me buy into the bar instead of just doing my damndest to drink myself to death… I took it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you lived.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snorts. “Or close enough to it.” His head falls back against the wall heavily as he sighs. “He’s gone, I imagine. I’ll come back down in a moment, I just…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take all the time you need.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Emma knows she didn’t do anything more than listen, but there’s still a satisfaction in seeing the way he has started to pull himself back together as she traipses back down to the bar.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>———</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re still not friends, but knowing those bits of another’s soul bonds two people together in a way that’s hard to describe. Jones is still sullen and quiet, but it’s less off-putting when Emma knows it comes from a place of pain. What matters is that Emma feels comfortable and </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe </span>
  </em>
  <span>here in Storybrooke and at the tavern, in the midst of these kind - and yes, in some cases morose - people. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That all changes when a telegram arrives unexpectedly, marked </span>
  <em>
    <span>urgent</span>
  </em>
  <span> and portending dangers Emma had hoped she had finally escaped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She opens it right away, of course; there’s only one person outside of this town who knows how to reach her, and August is too busy for needless correspondence. He hadn’t even responded when she’d wired him back in Boston that first day in Storybrooke just to let him know what had happened, and that she was still staying. Him sending a message can mean nothing good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma sinks onto a barstool as she reads the stark letters. Even without a mirror, she can feel the blood draining from her face as her nightmares resurface. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Be aware Oz sniffing around STOP Hired private detective STOP Be on alert and do what you must STOP Will keep apprised STOP</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma doesn’t know how long she sits there, staring at the little slip of paper. Somewhere, the yellow envelope it was delivered in has dropped away; she hadn’t noticed. She only comes back to herself when a firm hand shakes her shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Swan!” Jones all but barks, jerking her back to attention and to meet his eyes. It’s evident he’s been trying to get her attention for a while; thank god there are only a scant handful of people in the bar at this early hour, though she’d rather Will Scarlet hadn’t had to see this either. “What’s the matter?” he presses ahead. “Are you alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What an absolutely absurd question to ask as she sits here, white as a sheet. As much as Emma would like to deny it, claim everything is fine, she can’t. “No,” she barely manages to gasp out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s like everything around her has become a blur, like her mind can’t focus on anything but impending doom. Jones and Will Scarlett must have corralled her into the little back office; she has no memory of how she came to be sitting in the padded chair. Jones crouches by her side, his shoes lost beneath the edge of her skirt, wearing a surprisingly tender look on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is about what you’re running from, isn’t it?” he asks in as gentle a voice as Emma’s ever heard from him. It snaps her to alertness, eyes blown wide; it’s not remotely what she expected him to say. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you know that?” she demands. Emma hasn’t told anyone in town the underlying reason why she came to this little nowhere town, and yet here Jones is talking like it’s obvious to see. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I recognize the look of someone with demons to hide, and to hide from,” he says softly. “You’ve met mine, Swan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Faced with that kind of understanding, it’s like all the pride, the reticence, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fight</span>
  </em>
  <span> seeps right out of her. What’s the point? He seems to see right through her front anyways, for some reason she can’t pinpoint. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” she says, carefully making sure that neither her voice nor her hands tremble at the admittance. “It’s about the things I ran from in Boston.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And she does. As Will Scarlet stands by the door and Jones moves to lean against the desk, Emma lets the whole tale unravel: about the law office in New York she’d been a secretary in, about the junior partner, Walsh Oz, who’d taken a sudden interest in her, about the way she’d left that job when he wouldn’t stop pressing his attentions on her. About how he’d found out where she lived, and forced her to move three times. About how she’d finally packed up and moved to Boston, only for him to track her there as well, showing up in the department store she worked in. How she’d gotten more and more desperate, finally seizing upon the idea of answering one of the marriage ads in the paper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It seemed like the perfect solution,” Emma explains. Against her will, tears have begun pooling in her eyes, and she blinks furiously to dispel them. “It’d take me so far away from Boston and New York that Walsh Oz would never track me down - and besides, I’d have a husband. It didn’t matter that I probably wouldn’t love him, I’d be </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wouldn’t be able to bother me anymore if I was already tied to another man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Emma has told the whole sorry story, Will Scarlet has become visibly more upset in his stance by the door, bordering on fury, but Jones has remained implacably, unshakably calm. Emma appreciates it, in an odd way; it’s something stable to focus on, to keep the panic from overcoming her again. “And then you got here, and there wasn’t a husband to marry,” he says softly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emma nods. “I thought it would still be enough - rural Minnesota is so far from New York or Boston, you know? But now…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But now.” There’s something horribly ominous about his agreement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At least I have August to watch out for me - my friend, almost a brother. He works for a private detective agency.” Jones probably doesn’t much care about that, but talking and explaining keeps her in the moment. It only works for so long though, as the reality of the situation sets in. “If Oz comes here… where else can I go? What am I supposed to do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The silence sits for a moment, Emma trying not to cry, Scarlet and Jones looking at one another as if coming up with something. The question hovers in the room, threatening to suffocate them all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You came here because you thought a husband could protect you?” Jones finally asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then I’ll marry you instead. If you like.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s an absurd proposition, not least of all because Emma knows Jones may never get over his late fiancée. Beyond that… they barely know each other. They’ve worked together for two and a half months, and Emma has shared little bits of herself along the way and learned pieces of his own character, but that’s not enough to base a marriage on. But wasn’t that exactly what she was trying to do with Graham Humbert? To marry him, even though she barely knew him?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The difference, of course, is that Emma </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>worked alongside Jones for months, and knows this is not remotely what he’d ever planned for himself. It is much harder to go through with this when she knows that it isn’t something that both parties actively want.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to. I would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> ask that of you,” she hurries to protest - but he’s already shaking his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know I don’t,” he tells her. “And if you don’t want to, that’s fine, and we’ll try to figure something else out. But I think it might be your best option.” Jones pauses, and his face softens. “Graham was a good man, and a good friend of mine,” he tells her quietly. “He waited a long time for me to be a better man, and do something with my life. Let me do this for him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Emma agrees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>———</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is a small wedding - not that the occasion warranted anything different. They’re two people who barely aren’t strangers anymore, who hadn’t planned for this remotely or had even imagined such a possibility two days ago. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Technically, it’s the second time since Emma arrived in Storybrooke that two days have abruptly changed the course of her life. Maybe it’s an omen, of some sort; Emma doesn’t have the energy, or the opportunity, to pay heed to such a thought.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They make as much of the occasion as they can when Mary Margaret and Ruby only have two days to fuss. Emma wears her nicest dress - a summery, pale blue confection that makes her look a lot more girlish and innocent than she actually is - and there are fresh flowers along the pews of the little church that match the small bouquet in her hands. Only a small number of people attend to witness - the Nolans, Jones’ brother and his wife, Robin and </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>wife, and Granny with Ruby - but that’s alright. Emma may not know what her soon-to-be husband’s favorite color is, or his favorite meal, or even his middle name, but she does know that they’re both somewhat solitary creatures. Neither needs a crowd, or would be comfortable with one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s something oddly comforting about his presence at the end of the aisle, waiting for her in front of the reverend. He isn’t dressed particularly elaborately, but he’s taken the effort to put on a tie and coat and comb back his hair a bit, even if pieces keep popping up again. Most of all, Emma appreciates that his hands don’t tremble when they take hers. She’s terrified out of her wits about the foolishness they’ve both agreed to, but he manages to be so calm; so certain. It’s like he’s found an odd kind of purpose in doing her this favor beyond thanks, beyond reason. He’s calm when she meets him at the altar, and calm all through the short ceremony, and still calm when he slides the thin gold ring on her finger. It feels like some kind of blessing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before she knows it, the words are all said, and they’re moving to sign the paperwork and make this legally official. And that’s it: some of the most momentous minutes of her life are over and done, and Jones - Killian? - is leading her back down the aisle of the little church with her hand tucked into his arm, still that pillar of stability and reassurance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>married</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>———</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, they find themselves back in the little apartment above the bar. Emma’s pretty flowers have been set aside, her hat carefully extricated from the pins holding it to her hair, and Killian has worked off his jacket and tie. Silence stretches between them as they sit, she in the armchair by the fire and him at the kitchen table, but it’s not yet comfortable. They don’t quite know each other enough for that. It’s like they’re in a holding pattern, both just waiting for something to give, for the other to break or break through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I never expected to get married,” he finally says. Emma jerks her head to face him, but he carefully looks anywhere else, staring towards the opposite wall, fiddling with his fingers. “After Milah died… I expected I never would. That that would be it for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is not a good way to start a marriage - hearing that her new husband never wanted to get married in the first place. “I’m sorry, then. For trapping you in a marriage you never wanted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he shakes his head at the words, finally meeting her eyes. “No, no, that’s not what I mean, Emma. I’m not trying to - I don’t want you to think I regret this. It is its own kind of honor, doing this for you and for Graham. Makes me feel like a better man than I’ve been in a long, long time. What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is…” He pauses, as if collecting his words. “I suppose I don’t have… </span>
  <em>
    <span>expectations</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so to speak, of our marriage. We get along. I think you’re a good woman, and I’ve appreciated the help in the bar. And that can be it. I’m not expecting anything more. I’m perfectly happy to have a paper marriage, companionship and nothing more, because that’s already more than I ever expected for the rest of my life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ah. He’s alluding to sex. It’s kind of him to dance around this, but entirely unnecessary; delicacy has been out of the question for 8 years now, since she still thought Neal was her forever. It never really mattered for an orphan from the worst of Boston anyways. As kind as it may be, it’s unnecessary, and frankly too chivalrous for her purposes. In return, Emma chooses her words just as carefully as he did; at the beginning here, setting the stage for what may become the rest of their marriage, it seems important to do so. “Thank you, Mr. Jones —”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Killian.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Killian.” He’s right; they’ve already traded vows, such as they were, after all. “Thank you, Killian - but the fact of the matter is that I need this to be a real marriage. If our marriage is to protect me the way I need it to… then I need there to be no reason for anyone to claim otherwise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>———</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They consummate their marriage that night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is not making love by any means, and it is not even particularly good - it’s been too long for either of them to be in practice, and too little feeling between the two of them - but there is no denying that it is a real marriage now. Emma can smell the shot of rum he drank for courage as Killian determinedly avoids her lips. His body is warm and firm above her, inside her, but there’s no feeling to it, except in the apology he mumbles against her ear when he finishes before she’s even close to satisfaction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is fine. It is no more than she expected.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But at least it is a union, in almost every sense of the word. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>———</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(She had been anxious about this - the idea of giving her body to a man she barely knows, no matter how much she knows it to be necessary - but as mediocre as the act itself is, Emma can’t help but feel… connected, afterwards. Despite everything, he had been gentle with her, considerate. She doesn’t quite feel an affection for him - not yet, though she hopes she might one day, if this is to be the start of years to come - but it’s the first link in a bond that they’ll strengthen with time. Consummation had been a fraught decision for both of them, an emotional minefield in many ways, but they’re truly in this together now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All things considered - she’s glad she’s in it with </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.)</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! The next two chapters will be posted as they are completed. </p>
<p>Also posted on with a pic set tumblr, where I'm @shireness-says. Come say hi.</p>
<p>I hope you liked this - let me know what you think!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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